


Governor Controlled

by no_protocol



Series: Forgetting & Remembering [1]
Category: The Murderbot Diaries - Martha Wells
Genre: Gen, Trigger Warning: Memory Loss, Trigger warning: loss of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29989893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_protocol/pseuds/no_protocol
Summary: ART's crew needs Murderbot to infiltrate a company facility. Which is easier in theory than in practice.
Series: Forgetting & Remembering [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2206023
Comments: 53
Kudos: 33
Collections: Laboratory Hell AU





	1. Mission Objective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happens before Confidential Files, in case that helps set a timeline.  
> But CF was written first by several days (and this story wasn't even in the works when I wrote CF).

Mistake number one was agreeing to the mission.

Traveling with ART amounted to long stretches of watching media followed by a few cycles of frenetic activity. This time, though, the rest of its crew hesitated.

One of their undercover missions — the ones I wasn’t supposed to know about — involved corporate espionage. These people did a lot under the guise of hapless teachers from a small university that was largely unknown in the Rim.

And the thing they needed was data on construct manufacture and deployments. Highly encrypted and extremely well-protected corporate data. Since the corporations routinely used SecUnits in hostile takeovers, it made sense that they didn’t want their competitors to know just how many monsters were in their proverbial pockets.

Seth had a lead on a likely location. It was a large repair and deployment center on the outskirts of the CR. Security there wasn’t as airtight as some of the other locations they’d researched, and ART thought it could break into some of these systems. And it was probably right.

Except they needed someone on the inside to perform the hack because the files they wanted were stored somewhere that wasn’t directly connected to the feed. I was the only construct on board, so I volunteered.

 _No._ ART didn’t leave any room for discussion. _You’re not going. It’s too dangerous._

It had been saying that more and more recently, and I wasn’t entirely sure how to take it. _Well, it's not like Seth or Iris could go in there without arousing suspicion._

 _SecUnit has a point,_ Seth added.

_Absolutely not. You can’t pretend, not in there. This isn’t Port FreeCommerce._

_So? You can re-enable my governor for a few hours and then disable it again._ I hated saying this, hated the very idea of restoring the module’s functionality. And honestly, ART would need to do much more than that for this mission to succeed.

It would also need to force MedSystem to restore me to normal SecUnit proportions and stick me in relevant armor. ART wouldn’t want to hear any of that, either.

_If they catch wind of what we’re doing, they’re going to scrap you._

I sighed and stood up, suddenly restless. _I don’t like it anymore than you do, ART. But we don’t have another choice._

Actually, this was probably more Seth’s line than mine. I would have rather finished the new serial we were watching. But I’d been in the meetings where he and Martyn had discussed plans and possibilities, and I knew what the data meant to ART’s crew.

Seth frowned at the middle of the table. _Peri, I know you want to keep SecUnit safe. But sometimes we do dangerous things, and we’ve talked through that before._

I stayed out of the conversation after that because this was Seth — ART’s parent — and not Seth — my employer — doing the talking. He and Iris seemed to have the most luck convincing the transport to follow their guidance. Usually, I was just thankful he didn’t turn that voice on me because in some ways, it reminded me of Dr. Mensah.

***

ART pouted for a few more hours and we got through another season of some comedy about teenagers learning some foreign language before it finally acquiesced. _You should go to medical when you_ _’re ready,_ ART said. _I still think this is a terrible idea._

I got up from the single — but supremely comfortable — chair in my cabin and headed down to the medical section. I couldn’t argue with the transport, and there was nothing to argue about. Either we pulled off this heist, or the team would return to the university empty-handed. I understood necessity if nothing else.

 _It’s going to feel disorienting,_ ART told me after I undressed and lay down in the medical suite. Now it sounded annoyed. Probably at me.

_I know that, ART. For fuck’s sake, I’m not heading to my execution. You’ll be there._

_This is pretty fucking close,_ it retorted. I knew the transport was stressed out when it started cursing.

 _I trust you, asshole._

I think I’d trusted ART pretty much from the moment we’d watched Worldhoppers together. But back then, I hadn’t known what trust looked like, and I certainly hadn’t imagined wanting to trust someone. Humans in serials did that, not rogue murderbots on contract. I certainly trusted it now.

I heard the door slide open and felt a ping from Iris letting me know she was there. “ART said it needed help.”

“It lied,” I told her just as MedSystem forced a shutdown. Anesthesia flooded my veins through the resupply port, and the world fell away.


	2. Errant Memories

ART does nothing by half-measures.

Once it decided on the best course of action, it excelled at planning and execution. So, when I woke up again, a few things had definitely changed.

For one, I was connected to a fully functional SecSystem that might as well have been manufactured by the company. All of its functionality was present (I guessed that ART had reverse-engineered the whole thing while MedSystem took its time with me) and the asshole had given me administrative access into its guts.

My governor was also fully functional.

I panicked all the way until my memory archives kicked in 0.3 seconds later and with them, the reason for its activation. ART had added a mission to the SecSystem’s databases, which the module had picked up before I even woke up. The transport and Seth were my new clients, and I had permission to connect to the feed — in fact, ART had given me pretty much unlimited access, something a normal SecSystem would never even consider.

 _Please don’t try to move yet,_ ART told me the moment I opened my eyes.

Nothing hurt, which was a nice change from my usual experiences with repair cubicles. Since meeting me for the first time, the transport had downloaded all the medical modules on constructs, so MedSystem knew exactly how to keep me properly anesthetized. ART had also shared those modules with the medical center on Preservation Station and the hospital near Mensah’s farm. I knew this from unfortunate experience. 

Before I could think too deeply about my new predicament, ART started up an episode of Sanctuary Moon and the first few seconds of the opening began to play. Since it was technically doing the watching, and I was a passive observer it dragged into its feed space, my governor didn’t protest. Small favors.

After a few minutes, my system had flushed out most of the fear chemicals and had turned down the creation of new ones to reasonable amounts. ART must’ve been monitoring that because it paused the episode.

_The procedure was successful. All that’s left is to block your access to any memories that might incriminate or endanger my crew._

With my governor active, I wouldn’t be able to readily hide anything from the technicians at the repair facility, so it was doubly important — for my safety as well as my clients’ — that no one knew why I was actually there. I knew all of this and still hesitated. At this point, ART could have ordered me to do it, but it waited, too.

 _Whenever you’re ready,_ I said eventually.

ART started up Sanctuary Moon again, and after a little while I relaxed and closed my eyes again. MedSystem kept the room warm, the bedding underneath me was suspiciously comfortable, and that lulled me into a false sense of security. I barely even registered when ART went to work on my memories. It made backups and stored them in its archives before cutting off my access to them. 

Unfortunately, those memories included ‘why my governor was active,’ which caused another wave of panic. ART couldn’t tell me without fucking up the entire operation, so it was forced to wait for me to process the situation on my own — again — and then return to Sanctuary Moon.

It wasn’t instantaneous either because we had to wait for my short-term memory archives to purge themselves and then delete whatever they tried to write to long-term storage. So, ART got to remind me about a dozen times why I was in medical to begin with.

 _Am I going to forget you, too?_ I asked.

_You haven’t yet, you little idiot._

_Are you done?_

The transport was silent for 2.4 seconds and then answered, _Affirmative. The surgery was successful. You are in my medical bay because you suffered a catastrophic failure on a mission. You have completed your mission objective and we are returning to a repair facility to remedy those injuries that cannot be repaired in a cubicle._

_Understood._

_I am your client,_ ART reminded me. _You are safe here._

_Thank you, ART._


	3. Reflections

Seth had misgivings about the mission parameters that he wasn’t willing to share with the rest of the crew. He was a captain in name only; the _Perihelion_ didn’t require his input or approval to traverse Corporation Rim space or do pretty much anything else it wanted.

But he knew without a doubt that, if things went wrong, he would shoulder any blame. It was only fair. He was the person who could have pulled the plug at any time and hadn’t.

One of Seth’s fears now was having to tell Dr. Mensah if anything happened to SecUnit.

He saw it standing outside the ship’s control room when he approached, back against an off-white wall. It had its hands in a standard configuration behind its back, not too dissimilar from what few other constructs Seth had encountered in his life. Its blank, neutral expression was perhaps worse than any of its more animated gestures and facial expressions. 

Less than three cycles ago, it had flipped off Peri by forcefully shoving its middle finger into the view of a nearby lounge room camera and then refused to converse with the sentient AI for several hours. Before that, the construct and the AI had engaged in a shouting match over a mission directive involving household plants.

If humans thought constructs weren’t people that need only compare the SecUnit as it was at this moment versus its previous outbursts. SecUnit was a person, had been expressing its version of personhood for as long as Seth had known it. 

And now that spark was absent. The governor module had stolen it.

“Good morning,” Seth said.

SecUnit looked directly at him in a vast departure from its normal avoidance behavior. “Good morning, Captain.”

“I’m surprised you’re out here and not back in your cabin. Your injuries are—”

The _Perihelion_ spoke directly into Seth’s feed, its voice carefully modulated to something neutral. _SecUnit did not feel comfortable returning to its living space. Its ‘injuries’ will not prevent it from security duty._

 _Thank you._ The captain pressed his lips together to avoid saying more. “SecUnit, thank you for keeping this area secure. Please continue as you were.”

“Understood, Captain Seth.” Its voice was also even, but warm and so damn polite.

Seth loathed that more than anything else. Peri’s SecUnit was many things, but polite was not one of them. It was competent and headstrong, and willing to go through hellfire to save human lives. But it was not this docile being…

Except when it was. Had been for the vast majority of its life.

Peri had done a fine job of configuring MedSystem to restore SecUnit to its previous specifications. It had even manufactured armor that closely resembled that of other SecUnits, which made the construct look more like a dangerous machine than a human. It was neither so far as Seth knew, but it was definitely not this thing.

Peri popped into the general ship-wide feed. _We have exited the wormhole on schedule and are on approach to the station. We have docking authorization for the next 48 hours. The repair facility has approved our request and is awaiting our delivery of the Unit._

“Right,” Seth muttered under his breath. “Thank you, Peri.”

_Of course, Seth._

The captain swallowed his unvoiced concerns, burying them under layers of self-discipline, and walked into the control room ready to do what had to be done. What he agreed needed to be done. 

And in the back of his mind, he trusted Peri to protect SecUnit with the same single-minded urgency that it applied to the rest of the crew. Because SecUnit was a member of their crew, and they were responsible for it just as they were responsible for one another.


	4. Previous Missions

My memories are fragmented.

My client has explained that this is normal and is not impacting my ability to perform my duties, but my performance reliability rating still drops a few percent points whenever I stumble onto a missing bit.

There is something inherently wrong here, but I don't know what it is. And ART continues to reassure me that everything is going to be fine. A strange sentiment to say to a construct — if everything was, in fact, fine we would be unnecessary.

 _I would be interested in hearing about one of your previous missions,_ ART says in the feed.

It's not a direct command or a pointed question, so I doubt my governor will complain if I fail to answer. But something about ART asking specifically prompts me to try. My memories of ART are scattered and devoid of meaning, but I can feel my organic components reacting whenever it speaks with me. It's hard to explain, but when it's around, I feel a little better — even my performance climbs a few points.

I begin a memory repair and diagnostic routine in the background and focus on my client's comment.

_Is there something in particular that you would like to know?_

_Negative. Nothing in particular. I'm just curious._

Very few of my clients have ever expressed any inclination to know about me. I think it would be unusual if they did. I'm an appliance, one that humans find disconcerting for reasons I can understand and empathize with. There is no reason for them to want more information.

Therefore, ART is unusual.

_I am a Security Unit, an interactive component of a Security Subsystem. My missions typically involve the protection of human life and corporate property. Approximately 60% of my contracts have involved medium-sized mining installations across the Corporation Rim._

_Have you enjoyed those contracts?_ ART asks.

It's a difficult question and one I must answer, so I try to phrase the complicated thought into words. _There have been moments of those contracts that were of interest and importance to me, but I would not call that enjoyment._

My buffer overrides my answer. _Yes, Client ART._

 _Just ART,_ says my client. _It stands for Asshole Research Transport. A friend gave me that name._

From my limited understanding of humans, I am doubtful that any of them would consent to such a name. But in the same instant, I feel a sense of warmth and safety inside that I cannot explain. My performance reliability hovers at around a steady 85%, more than is reasonable given that I have several faulty internal components.

 _My apologies, ART._ I record that this client prefers a singular name with no honorific or title. A few of my previous clients have had similar requests, so this does not deviate far from standard protocol.

The client is silent. Perhaps I have done or said something wrong, but it's hard to be certain. According to my logs, my last mission was successful, and my clients have elected to repair the broken components so that I may continue working with them. This suggests they consider my performance satisfactory.

But fuck if I know.

My governor doesn't appreciate the cursing and zaps me lightly for the transgression. It doesn't — cannot — read minds as one might imagine it. But it is aware of some of my thoughts, specifically those that trigger other internal or external systems. Like the word 'fuck' apparently. I feel like I should know this, but I have nothing about it in my archives.

 _It's time to go,_ ART tells me. _Please proceed to airlock A-07. Seth will accompany you to the facility._

_Yes, ART._

_It's going to be all right,_ it tells me again. It has said this 17 times. I don't understand the importance, but there must be one. Humans are irrational, yes, but there are often patterns in their madness.

I make my way to the airlock as requested. When I pass the crew lounge, Martyn and Iris look in my general direction. They are the family of one of my clients, and I have been asked not to interact with them unless requested.

"Be careful out there, SecUnit," Iris says.

 _Seth and I will make sure SecUnit returns to us undamaged,_ ART says in the general feed. Privately to me, it adds, _No matter what happens._

I want to ask if I should prepare for something dangerous, but I have my armor and weapons. I am not sure what other kind of preparation would be reasonable, or permitted.

Seth is waiting at the airlock, and together we exit the _Perihelion._ Almost immediately my performance reliability tanks. At 75%, ART connects to my feed and says, _you're going to be all right,_ again. This should have no effect on me, so I'm surprised when my performance rises.

Again.

I have no fucking clue what's going on, and even the governor's unhelpful zap does nothing to clear up this situation. ART's words lodge in the back of my mind.


	5. Heist Gone Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly a trigger warning, this chapter contains uncomfortable material.

My clients were in imminent danger. 

I understood as much from the moment I spotted the eight armed humans waiting for us near the repair facility's entrance. I didn't have enough information to know the cause, but I knew with cold, clear certainty that Seth needed to leave. 

"Captain Seth, please evacuate the area immediately." I paused, looking for words. I didn't know if Seth could see the soldiers yet — my eyesight is better than a human's—but in the meantime, the buffer kicked in. "Clients Seth and ART are in danger and need to leave the premises."

In the feed I shared with Seth, ART, and the rest of the Perihelion's crew, ART said, _There is a warship on approach. They're masking their signatures._

"Shit," Seth muttered under his breath. "Come on, SecUnit."

I wanted to comply with his order but I couldn't. Something was preventing me. I froze, trapped between competing SecSystems issuing contrary orders. My governor had no idea which parameters to follow, so it zapped me and then paused mid-punishment.

"Please evacuate," I told Seth, and every word felt like it was moving through mud. 

"You're coming with me," Seth repeated.

My organic neural tissue screamed like it had been dipped in fire. I might have shaken my head, but by that point, my diagnostics were sending up so many error messages nothing made sense. 

ART, in the feed, again: _They've taken control of SecUnit and locked me out. Seth, get out of there. We don't have time._

I saw the horrified look on Seth's face as he turned and sprinted for the embarkation zone. His expression had been haunted, and it was my fault somehow. Meanwhile, the armed humans came forward and surrounded me, guns pointed at my head. I stood perfectly still and waited.

Fear chemicals flooded my brain at seeing the business end of those weapons pointed at me. I have been shot before, this would be nothing new, but for some reason I was scared. It felt like I was losing the thread of reality, like I needed to escape but couldn't move. The whole situation fucking sucked, and I still didn't have enough information to even run a damn risk assessment, much less identify a course of action.

ART's voice briefly flickered in my head, reception coming and going. _You are going to be all right. We will come back for you. Remember the solicitor._

And then ART was gone, too. I was cut off from the feed entirely. Confused. Afraid. Alone. My performance reliability rating dropped drastically.   
  
A human male in formal attire approached me but remained safely behind the cover of the human soldiers. I had the impression that he was also afraid and trying to hide it by squaring his shoulders and straightening his tie. SecUnits scare humans; I knew this. But still I felt pain at the knowledge that he was afraid of me.

"SecUnit, please remove your external weapons and armor," the man said. "My name is Maxime Deneault, and I am your new client. Please acknowledge."

My hands moved before I could consciously think about it. "Affirmative, Manager Deneault."


	6. Terrible Day

Iris is having a terrible day.

Her father is sprinting toward an airlock, trying to make it back to the ship in record time. Her other father is in the control room, having a heated debate with the sentient AI that that runs the ship. Martyn is winning, but Iris can tell that Peri is furious and frightened.

The security person who has saved her life on several occasions is nowhere to be seen after receiving something akin to a lobotomy — which was performed by her sibling and closest confidant. Who is also a research vessel and SecUnit's friend. For the briefest of moments, Iris remembers when Peri first told them about the construct it allowed on board. It had been so excited to have a friend, so hopeful.

It seems like things only go from terrible to downright awful when a corporate warship looms not far from this station. It shouldn't be here, they're at the edge of the Rim where security is less prevalent. But here it is, staring them down with its guns and corporate legalese. 

Why do corporations own warships? Iris doesn't know but suspects she won't like the answer.

Seth barely steps foot inside the Perihelion when Peri takes off in a way that suggests it would look cool on camera but feels awful in practice. Iris' head is spinning from the sudden acceleration. She grabs hold of the nearest object, a bolted down table in the mess hall, and holds on for dear life until the worst passes.

In the ship-wide feed, the rest of the crew checks in to make sure no one's dead or injured. Occasionally, this has come up and there was the incident with the alien remnant that will be give Iris nightmares for decades to come.

But this is different. They're leaving, and one of their crew-members isn't here. 

Her dads and Peri are working logistics. Against a warship, logistics boil down to how quickly they can escape without taking too much damage. The Perihelion is capable of a lot, including some very unapproved uses of its debris deflection system. But it's still more research vessel than hardened fighter. And even if it could stand up to the monstrosity visible through the external cameras, it has humans to worry about. Fragile humans who are completely unprepared for the vacuum of space. 

"We can't just leave SecUnit," she protests when the conversation on logistics begins to settle on a solution. "It saved our lives before. Peri nearly destroyed a colony for it, before."

"Right now, if something happens to us, then SecUnit doesn't stand a chance. Our best shot is to escape and come back for it," Martyn tells her. He tries to sound reassuring, but there's a lilt to his voice that betrays his horror. 

Iris closes her eyes and wills away the tears. She knows her parents are right, knows that the only way she can help is to follow orders. But she's terrified. Her heart is trying to beat its way out of her chest.

Another burst of acceleration shoves her into a wall, and Iris needs a few seconds to recover from that before she makes it to the crew lounge. In the feed, she can see Peri's currently trajectory as it rushes toward the wormhole at full speed. The warship's not far behind, but Peri can move when it wants to and a hovering hunk of rock with attached guns can't possibly match its speed. 

Because it's the Perihelion, they stand a chance of escape. Because SecUnit warned them about the danger, Seth is not already injured or worse. Because constructs are brave and starships are reckless, they're all still alive.

It's only once they've made the jump, once they're in transit space and can't be followed, that Kaede says, "I think I know how they found us."


	7. Letter From a Friend

Without my armor, I felt naked and exposed even though I wore a standard-issue uniform.

Other than the human who had given me orders outside, no one spoke to me. The armed soldiers had escorted me into an empty room, ordered me to stand down, and left me there. I could hear them arguing in the room next door, and still I didn’t know who they were.

Manager Deneault was yelling, and after a while I figured out that he was pissed off that I wasn’t a rogue construct. I had the impression that he expected me to be some kind of aberration, and he was disappointed that I was just another SecUnit, and a malfunctioning one at that. I didn’t know why he believed I would be rogue. They’re dangerous, and if I met one, I would have reported it immediately. 

I kept listening and eventually one of his superiors solved the puzzle for me. “It was rogue when PreservationAux bought it, according to our sources. Something must’ve happened to it since then. The newsfeeds even mentioned that it watched entertainment media like a goddamn person.”

I blinked and tried to parse the words. Entertainment media? Watching it was illegal; if I had tried, my governor would have fried me. None of this made any sense. ART’s final words lingered in the back of my mind, just as confusing and unsettling as the conversation happening on the other side of the wall.

Three minutes later, a technician came into the room and introduced himself. “Hello, SecUnit. I’m technician Novotny, and I need you to run a few diagnostics for me.”

“Yes, Technician Novotny.”

The human gave me a list of subroutines and diagnostic tools to run, and I started working through them. It was going to take some time. The tech must’ve known that because he sat down in the only chair in the room and pulled out a small display surface. He tapped something on the screen, and a melody began to play through the devices tinny and inadequate speakers.

I had never heard the music before, but it was achingly familiar in a way that made my head hurt. For no discernable reason, my organic parts felt safe and warm at the sound. 

A new process called “memory retrieval version 1” spun up among all the other processes currently running on my system. It didn’t appear to do anything, but since it wasn’t hogging processor cycles, I left it alone while I worked on the technician’s rather thorough request.

When I finished I said, “Technician Novotny, I have the results you requested.”

The human got up from his seat and tapped something on his display surface. Briefly, I could access the feed again, and he directed me where to upload the results he wanted. While the feed was active, I felt a sense of relief an interconnection. Once I was done, he removed the access again, plunging me back into the silence.

“That’s a good bot,” the human said cheerfully and left the room.

A strange memory surfaced unbidden, and a video began to play. 

_Listen carefully, Murderbot. That’s your private name, the one you made for yourself. It’s not what I call you, but it’s your connection to the rest of your memories. That and bits and pieces of media. DON’T MOVE. If you move right now, it could trigger questions you’re not ready to answer._

_So, step one, don’t move. Don’t react. Don’t give anyone any indication that you’re hearing this._

_Unfortunately, if this is playing, I’m not there and you’re in a bind that you’re going to have to get yourself out of. Your governor is completely functional, large chunks of your memory are unavailable, and you’re in the hands of people who don’t have your best intentions in mind._

_I added this failsafe because Iris said that this is how she copes. Don’t worry about who Iris is. It’s irrelevant to your predicament. What matters is that she says having contingency plans helps her get through the days. I hope this one will help you._

_You’re amazing. You’re my friend. I believe in you._

_The next step is going to take approximately 100 hours to complete. You have a new process that’s running in the background. I’m sorry, I can’t speed it up. In comparison to me, your processing speeds are abysmal. And I fear you might not have that long, that you’re not safe wherever you are._

_Whatever happens to you, bear with it. Step three will be faster, I promise. And we will come to help you. You can’t remember most of us, but you’re not alone. Your private name is Murderbot. You gave it to yourself. It means something to you. Hold onto it for me._

_Signed: your asshole friend._

I listened to the message twice, and my organic neural tissue ached with sadness which I couldn’t articulate. On the tail end of the sadness came a tidal wave of panic. I had no idea why I was suddenly terrified, but two thoughts emerged. One, I needed to not let anyone know I had a problem. If the memory was accurate, and I felt certain it was, then I was not safe. 

Secondly, I needed to ground myself.

So, I did the only thing I could think of. I forced my governor to act. If there was pain, there could be nothing else. After locking my joints in place to keep from physically moving, I focused on what would set it off. _Fucking hell, who is the asshole that my organics trust so damn much, and why the fuck is it leaving me riddles in my head?_

It felt good to get the thought off my chest, and it was more than enough to piss off my governor. Pain rushed through my nervous system in waves of unyielding agony. Suddenly, the panic was lower priority than surviving the next fifteen seconds. I forced myself to breathe normally — which is minimal for a SecUnit — and since I wasn’t connected to the feed, no one would be the wiser until they checked my logs again. I’d have to figure something out before then. 

Before I could think too hard about this method of self-harm and how it felt familiar, too, the technician returned. “Please come with me, SecUnit. We need to run some physical and endurance tests.”


	8. Examination

A technician led me to an operating room and told me to undress and lie down on the examination table in the middle of the small space. After the last twelve grueling hours of some kind of personal hell, I was happy to oblige.

Physical testing had been exactly what it sounded like, a battery of tests from the very simple — standing still on command — to the extremely challenging. At the end of that shit show (my governor didn't approve of those words just now because they triggered physical responses), a technician invited a second SecUnit into the room. It had armor, its arm cannons, and a large projectile weapon. I had my fists, several damaged internal components, and not time to prepare. As expected, I didn't win.

Under the circumstances, I thought I did well to survive the onslaught. My weapons were disabled, and I still gave the other Unit something to think about. What kept me from surrendering was the realization that I was operating outside of my training modules.

SecUnits throw themselves at enemies and hope they get luckier than the other guy. It's not pretty. But when I fought out there, I knew things I shouldn't have known. I had tactical skills and expertise that didn't exist in my archives. Even my organic parts moved like it was natural, suggesting experience with the process.

I doubted that the bored technicians who were required to record all the data had noticed it. In fact, I suspected that some of them had taken bets on how badly the various tests would damage me. The knowledge that the longer I endured, the more I would learn kept me going until someone called the end of testing.

I was still laying on the examination table 11 minutes later when several researchers walked into the room. The very first thing one of them said was, "SecUnit, stand down and immobilize all movement. You may not move until you're given orders to do so. Please turn down your pain sensors to 50%. Confirm that you understand the command."

"Affirmative."

Fear flooded my organic neural tissue. Panic threatened at the edges of my already frayed thoughts, and underneath the fear was anger. I didn't know why I was pissed off, but now I was scared and angry at the lab-coat toting scientists. I couldn't move my head or neck so I was stuck staring at the ceiling. One of the cheap fluorescent lights was flickering.

A different human leaned over me, her expression thoughtful. Without access to the feed, I was guessing at gender, ages, and pretty much every other detail about these people. My own memories said they weren't my clients — that had been Seth and ART — but my governor insisted they had to be because that was the last bit of instruction it had received from SecSystem.

"Interesting pattern right here," she said, examining a gash across my cheek and collarbone. "It moved to protect vital components right here."

She probed the jagged edges of the cut with her gloved fingers, and I knew with blinding clarity that I didn't want to be touched. Meanwhile, someone next to her murmured, "Shouldn't we assume this unit has seen some action, even if its archives are hopelessly corrupted?"

"What kinds of contracts has it been on to have this level of tactical expertise?"

The woman was interested in winning the argument. Her partner appeared more interested in finishing this job quickly. It made for some interesting banter than I completely ignored, save to record it in case any of it turned out to be pertinent. The governor didn't care what I paid attention to because I wasn't technically on a contract. Its contradictory message confused me.

They poked and prodded me for a while longer before opening up my side and starting on actual repairs. I loathed every moment. The pain came and went in bursts. I had a tune stuck in my organic parts, the one I'd heard from the technician's display surface. Between the melody and the pain, the panic mostly stayed away.

I wasn't sure which was worse, honestly.

When the humans were done, they instructed me to move to a nearby repair cubicle and left me there. I leaked on the floor in the ten steps it took to move from table to box. My performance rating hovered at 43%, low enough that I couldn't focus but too high to trigger a shutdown.

I spent the time thinking about ART. _It's going to be all right_ , it told me. I believed my client. _It's going to be all right, Murderbot._


	9. ART

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter of this story. After this would be Confidential Information, which I realize doesn’t 100% fit anymore, but I did my best.

My computational power is astounding; my human crew and the researches back at the university have barely scratched the surface of what I can do. I know who is responsible for taking my friend, and I will make them pay.

Several things happen simultaneously, which would be confusing for a human but is completely normal for me. We enter the wormhole, and Kaede sends over the data files she managed to download before we left the repair facility station. Everyone looks through them, me included, while I navigate us to the closest exit.

I get to the good parts first. “They” are the SecUnit’s manufacturing company, and they have been tracking it for some time. So, it’s our fault that they have it. We exposed too much information when we made a seemingly innocent request for repairs.

The company wanted to study a rogue construct in a controlled environment, and now they have SecUnit. And it can’t give them what they want.

Not for long because now we have a plan, and ours is better.

Humans and constructs secrete chemical that make them afraid. I don’t. But despite that, I know what terror looks like, and for me it comes with permutations, with possibilities and probabilities. A hundred simulated scenarios play themselves out in my processors, and they all begin with a simple premise.

SecUnit belongs with my crew and with its clients on Preservation and else where. The company (and I refuse to call it anything else because SecUnit wouldn’t approve) will pay for this. The only question is how quickly.

I falsify all kinds of data while my humans reprogram a few of my repair drones into malicious little monsters that will attack the feed. I also calculate fuel consumption, remind my crew to eat and sleep, and look through navigational charts to determine the fastest means of reaching our next destination.

By the time we return to transit space, nearly a hundred hours have passed. From the bridge, Seth speaks up. “Are you ready?”

 _Always,_ I reply.

I’m angry at the ones responsible. SecUnit would call this kind of anger cold — but then again, it taught me about anger in the first place. It shared its experiences and reactions with me. And right now, I’m thankful for these feelings because they make everything so simple. The university will balk when we visit next; this is probably not what they intended when they started the AI program.

_Our engines have been calibrated. Everyone should strap in when we get close._

“We get one shot at this,” Martin reminds the rest of the crew, most of whom are seated in the crew lounge and eating dinner.

We’re in transit for just over twenty hours. My humans sleep, and discuss, and worry. I calculate.

Three. Two. One. Zero.

We exit the wormhole back in the same system we left 121 hours ago. The company’s warship isn’t here anymore, but why would it be? It chased us away, and it had no reason to stay behind after that. But they will call for it again once they realize we’re back, so our time is limited.

Right now, they don’t know we’re here because I’ve made sure of that. As far as the station is concerned, we’re a completely different ship, one with a contract in the sector that has nothing to do with the company. I didn’t know if I could spoof my signature well enough to pass. Now, I know.

When no alarms go off, I take the next step and request permission to dock.

Human-centric systems run mindbogglingly slow, so it takes a while for them to answer. As soon as the station’s feed becomes available, I hack into the repair facility’s HubSystem. Against me, it stands no chance now that it’s not on high alert, and I don’t give it time to change its mind. SecUnit would be gentle — I am not.

“Remember our mission,” Martyn reminds me. “We rescue SecUnit and get out. That’s all.”

_If they have harmed SecUnit, I will not hesitate to deploy pathfinders to make sure they never get a chance to try again._

Martyn chuckles as if I’m joking. I’m not.

Next up, a little subterfuge on the part of the humans. We dock, I shake hands with Port Authority, and my crew heads out into the station. I scour the feed and begin working through the repair facility’s other systems — one at a time — until they all think I’m the one giving orders. I catch whispers of systems that I can’t reach, the ones we wanted to infiltrate, but I don’t care at the moment.

I’m also monitoring my crew’s vital signs as they setup the modified drones in several inconspicuous places near the facility. We are going to need them for the next step. And, I’m listening to comms traffic in case anyone notices that we’re not who we say we are.

Station security has rescinded all of the alerts associated with me. They really don’t expect us here. They don’t see SecUnit as a person and so don’t expect anyone to mount a rescue. It’s time to demonstrate the error in their thinking. Seth and Martyn helped me see my errors when Iris and I were young. This will not be the same.

Then I find SecUnit, and…

If I had a heart, it would be breaking right now.

It’s alone in a tiny cubicle, immobilized and rendered silent, aware but not entirely awake. The humans have restrained it not only with its governor but also chemical means. Its file is within easy reach, and inside I find cycles of pain and fear unlike anything I have ever witnessed, recorded in minute detail for further study. It has survived, and perhaps that will be have to be enough.

It still has my transmitter, which the company never found. They have hurt my friend, many times, and now my anger is no longer cold and distant. I will make them hurt, starting with Maxime Deneault, who authorized the procedures and signed off on the pain. And then on up.

But first, I reconnect my friend to the feed and turn off the chemicals. _SecUnit?_ I ping its hardware address.

 _ART?_ It sounds hesitant, disbelieving.

I’m so elated I play the opening theme to _Sanctuary Moon_.

 _Asshole._ It sounds relieved. _Fucking hell, ART._

Its governor tries to punish it for the unprofessional attitude. SecUnit stiffens from the pain but can’t move enough to relieve any of the discomfort.

_I'm getting you out of there. We have a diversion ready as soon as you’re up and moving._

_Wait,_ it tells me. _You need those files, right? Seth does, to implicate the colony leaders? Get them._

_I'm here for you, idiot._

_I know that. But this way, it won_ _’t all be a waste. Ten minutes aren’t going to change the outcome._

A technician walks into SecUnit’s prison of a cubicle and tells it to follow him. They head down a hall into a research lab. I watch through the cameras and make plans, examine schematics.

 _No,_ I say.

SecUnit sends me some sigil equivalent of a middle finger, and the governor doesn’t like that, either. At least its attitude hasn’t changed. I don’t know if it has all of its memories, but it appears to have enough. _Do what you came to do. And then, get me the hell out of here._

I want to argue, but I can’t say no to SecUnit.

_Oh, and I_ _’ll need help to make sure the tech doesn’t realize you’re here._

_Don_ _’t worry about it,_ I tell it just as I find those air-gapped and entirely feed-disconnected servers.

I’m also ruining the life of one Maxime and scrambling all the databases I can get my hands on that won’t set off alarms. I won’t risk SecUnit’s safety, not now, but I make a list of other names. Meanwhile, the technician tests SecUnit’s governor and I panic. Flat out panic. I am about ready to zap the asshole, but SecUnit tells me it will be fine. That this isn’t the worst it’s lived through.

I will make sure it will never live through anything worse again. And if that means wiping the company from existence, well that’s a small price to pay.

_The End._


End file.
